


Dossiers and Snapshots

by OuyangDan



Series: Dossiers and Snapshots [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OuyangDan/pseuds/OuyangDan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sitcom-esque collection of drabbles featuring Natasha and Clinton. They bicker over coffee. They fight crime. It writes itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Place to Crash

She's sipping tea, stretched out in her bed. The sheets aren't very practical — fine and expensive and very indulgent to sleep in. Turning the pages of _The Cardinal of The Kremlin_ , she rolls her eyes, nearly snickering to herself.

"That would never work," she says to no one, a hint of a chuckle in her voice. It's so quiet her words echo.

The buzzer doesn't startle her. Almost as if she's expected someone to come calling at this late hour, she half shrugs to herself, puts a mark in her book and sets it on the nightstand.

She strolls through the apartment, taking her time, picking up a light housecoat and sliding it on. Still tying the sash, she makes a show of using the peep hole on the door, tapping her side of the door with a flat palm. She rolls her eyes just slightly to one side, smirking since not one is there to see her. Walking over to the stove, she sets the kettle on to boil. She stretches over towards the sink and retrieves another mug, setting it next to the one she's already been using.

After moving a stool back to its place at the breakfast bar, she makes her way leisurely to the door.

"About time you showed up," she speaks calmly before opening it, no hint of humor in her voice, though the slight turn of her mouth almost hints otherwise. "I was about ready to go to bed," she says, undoing the bolt, then the chain, and finally the turning lock on the doorknob before she pulls the heavy door open. Leaning on one elbow in the frame, she doesn't smile, and merely lifts one scarlet eyebrow at the man on the other side.

Clint shrugs, staring down at his shoes. "When have I ever done things the easy way, _Natalia_?"

Tilting her head, she narrows one eye nearly imperceptibly. "Oh, it's _Natalia_ now, is it, _Agent_ Barton? Well, then, _Agent Barton_ , I suppose this is the portion of our conversation where we negotiate." She crosses her arms, effectively making the threshold impassible.

He sighs. "Negotiate? You are terrible at negotiation." He rubs the back of his head absently, trying for a grin.

She tilts her head to one side fractionally. "Oh? Is that so? Then tell me why you are not still in Turkish prison."

One eyebrow lifts, creasing his brow. "My devilish good looks?"

"You're not that charming. Believe me. I know."

"Oh?" He looks unconvinced. "Come on, Tasha. You're going to let me in."

Shifting her weight to the other foot, she examines her fingernails. She shrugs noncommittally.

Both of his eyebrows lift. "You are going to let me in. Right?" He tilts his head. "Tasha?"

"You know there's a nice bench down in the lobby." She barely shrugs. The kettle starts whistling in kitchen, and she doesn't so much as flinch. Fanning out her fingers in front of her face, she purses her lips slightly.

"Are you going to get that?" He fidgets. His eyes keep flicking to the kettle, screeching in the background. He shifts awkwardly. Rolling his shoulders he cranes his neck towards the kitchen. "Tasha?"

She scratches one finger in the back of her hair, tilting her head the other way, then picking at her cuticle.

"Tasha?"

Finally looking up at him, she lifts her eyebrows.

"Tasha. The kettle."

She blinks.

Deflating slightly, he rolls his lips inward over his teeth. "Fine. You win."

"I win?"

"Yes." His eyes widen a bit, looking at the kitchen, then back at her. "I was wrong." He pulls his mouth down and bats his eyes.

"Say it."

Clint's head tilts side to side. "Do I have to?"

"I'll get you a blanket for that bench." She jerks her head in towards the apartment in the direction of the newly refurbished hall closet.

"Okay, okay. Yes. You are the best negotiator ever." He rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling, bobbing his head slightly.

"And?" She leans her hip against the doorframe, meeting his eyes.

Resigned, he sighs. "And if it wasn't for you I would still be in Turkish prison."

Her mouth almost curls into a smile. Almost. "Okay." She steps aside, extending an arm inside. "Rent is due on the first of the month, and I'm going to need a security deposit."

Stopping mid-stride to the kitchen, the drops his duffel and turns to look at her. His brow furrowed in confusion. "A security deposit? From me?"

"Clint," she says firmly. "Des Moines."

"Ah," he agrees, leaning his head back a bit. "I'll have it tomorrow."

"I'll make up the sofa."

"I'll make the tea."


	2. Scenes From A Coffee Shop

The click of heels on tiles makes him put the magazine down. She sets the mug down in front of him on a saucer before taking a seat on the wire chair across from him.

He sniffs it, lifting a sandy-blond eyebrow in her direction. He tilts his head in a way that people have of communicating wordlessly after years of proximity.

"What?" she asks. She takes a delicate sip from her own mug of espresso.

"What is this?"

"It's coffee." She shrugs noncommittally, not looking at him, and picks up his magazine. "I can't believe you are reading this." Her mouth pulls into a slight pucker as she side eyes him, flipping a few pages.

"This," he gestures at the steaming beverage, "is not coffee. I know coffee. This is decaf, and that was the only thing not draping women as props all over some guy."

She rolls her eyes into the magazine, but doesn't look at him. "It is not decaf. This is written in Korean. You don't read Korean."

He taps fingers on the table rhythmically, eyes never leaving the mug in front of him. "Pictures don't need translation." He slides the cup away from himself. "I can't drink this."

Setting the magazine down and closing it, she lifts her shoulders ever-so-slightly, then leans her chin on one hand. "For crying out loud. Why would I bring you decaf? I've watched you drink six cups a day for … a very long time."

"Yes. You've also had some comment about each one. Let's see. One comment per cup, over six cups a day … carrry the …" He moves his callused index finger over the table as if writing.

"Very clever. Yes, yes, you're very good at math. Drink you coffee before it gets cold." She opens up a black handbag and pulls out a few envelopes, beginning to flip through them.

"Of course. Because if there's one thing worse than cold coffee, it's cold decaf." He taps his fingers a few more times and reaches for her mug.

Without even looking up she clutches his wrist tightly. "Don't, Clint."

The side of his lip curls up on one side, his corresponding eye crinkling just a bit. "We can trade."

"We. Don't. Trade." Her red brow lifts, the side of her mouth curling up slightly. On anyone else it would be a tell.

"That's not what you said in Budapest," he says in a low voice. He picks his magazine back up and returns to the page he'd dog-eared.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently," she quotes him back to himself.

He stares at her for just a moment before shrugging and returning to his page. "You're just mad because you can't trick me anymore. This nose always knows." He taps his nose on one side lightly.

She tilts her head at him, her eyes rolling in his direction. "Fine. It's decaf. You were hurt recently. I'm just watching out for your health." Without looking up, she adds, "and for the record I could trick you if I was trying."

"Do you know what they use to decaffeinate coffee? I'm better off." He turns a page. "If I recall correctly, it was you that hit my head." He smirks into the magazine.

"You never did thank me for that. I already told you, it was a simple cognitive recalibration. "Hit your head" sounds so indelicate." She finishes her cup and slides the plate away.

"It didn't feel very delicate," he chides her with humor. Standing, he picks up their cups to take back to the counter.

"You're just getting soft in your old age," she tells him without emotion in her voice, though her mouth turns up nearly imperceptibly with what might be mistaken for affection. "Bring me another, and a biscotti," she orders in a mild tone.

"One decaf and a blueberry muffin, coming right up."


	3. Traffic Laws

"Here," she says flatly. Natasha tosses the envelope across the breakfast bar as she walks in bare feet to the refrigerator. "I thought you might find this interesting." She pulls a carton of half and half from the fridge and opens it to sniff. She doesn't wince so much as her eyebrows take on their own orbit for the briefest of moments. "You said you were going to buy more milk."

"I did." He barely looks up while defending himself, plucking the envelope from the table. "Interesting how?" He slides a thumb under the seal and pries it open, not bothering to ask how it is still sealed. "Interesting as in New York, or interesting as in Bangalore?"

"That depends," she says, putting the expired condiment back in the fridge, giving up on coffee for the moment. "Which time in Bengaluru?" She leans her back against the chrome finish and crosses her arms under her breasts.

His nose wrinkles slightly. "Not the first time, that was a mess."

" _You_ were a mess," she reminds him. When he looks about to protest, she tilts her head to one side and lifts an eyebrow fractionally.

"Yeah. You're right. The second time was a little better."

Her mouth turns up on one side slightly in agreement. "So?" She curls her fingers towards herself and looks down at her nails. "You in?"

"Where did you get this?" He tucks the note back into the envelope and slides it into his back pocket.

"Maria."

"Maria? I didn't think—"

"No, you probably didn't." She moves across the floor and picks up a duffel bag on her way out of the kitchen. "I'll be ready in ten."

"I didn't even agree to it yet," he argues, crossing his arms. He juts his hip out to one side, shifting his weight.

"You will. Suit up." She doesn't even look back at him as she says it.

He moves his mouth silently, bopping his head from side to side. "You will," he mimics under his breath.

She calls from the next room. "I heard that."

He is adjusting the tension on his bow when she comes back out. "I'm just tweaking Babushka, and I'll be ready." He states the obvious without so much as a twitch on his face. He is all business as he focuses his eyes intently down the sight with a hand on the riser. He jerks his arm once and it collapses.

Her mouth stretches into a thin line and she tilts her head just _slightly_ at him. "I really wish you would stop calling it that."

"She doesn't understand us," he coos to the bow, his mouth pulled into a mockery of sulking.

Pulling the keys from the cup hook near the door, her face doesn't even flick a muscle when she looks at him. "No one understands you."

Slinging his quiver, he follows her. "You do."

"Trust me, I wish that wasn't true," she says completely deadpan. She pulls the door open and rings the elevator.

He taps his fingers rhythmically during the long ride to the parking garage. There is no music playing over the speakers to break the silence. Natasha shifts her weight to one foot. The elevator opens and they both move to exit at the same time, colliding sideways with one another.

"After you," he motions to the door.

Her brow pulls down in the middle nearly imperceptibly as she repeats his gesture. "Age before beauty."

The side of his mouth curls up just slightly as he lifts one shoulder and moves through the door. He grabs his helmet from the hook then pulls it on his head. He puts one leg over the motorcycle parked in their spot. "Hop on, Tasha."

Arms crossed, she rolls her eyes ever-so-slightly at him. She tilts her head just _so_ , not using any words.

"Oh, no." He shakes his head back and forth, tossing her a helmet. "You are not driving."

"Clint," she speaks the one word with the slightest lift of inflection. Whether it's exasperation or affection is debatable. "No. Remember Kolcatta?"

He turns his head slightly, a hint of a smirk below one arched eyebrow. "Calcutta? No?"

"Exactly," she tells him, and she doesn't ask or wait so much as just sits in front of him


	4. Pas de Deus

"Ouch, Clint," she growls at him between her teeth, trying to keep her voice down. She doesn't want anyone to overhear them. "I don't bend like _that_. You can't just grab my limbs and yank them any which way."

He smirks just slightly at the side of his mouth. "Losing your flexibility in your old age, Tasha?" He eases up just a bit where he's been pushing against her.

Natasha sits up, pressing her mouth into a tight line and shifting subtly against him. She adjusts his hand to where it needs to be to not only stop hurting, but to actually accomplish what they set out to do. "You can't just force it, Clint, you have to … ouch … ease into it." She slaps his other hand away. "Never mind, I'll just do it myself."

"You're better at it yourself, are you?" His left eye crinkles just a bit. Locking his fingers behind his head he leans back against the wall to watch.

"I've been doing it myself for years, Clint." She grunts softly, pulling her knee up against her chest. Extending one leg out towards him, she curves her foot and points her toes. "Make yourself useful while I finish up here," she orders mildly, rolling her neck from side to side.

The face he makes is anything but amused, but he shifts just enough to reach the foot she's proffered. Rubbing the balls of his thumb across the arch of her foot deftly, he continues pulling the face. "I don't see what all the fuss is about, Tasha. We've done this a million times before."

She rolls slightly, using an arm against him as leverage to get a better position. "You should know as well as anyone." Grabbing her knee and pulling it across her chest with a soft grunt she releases the tension and then props up on her elbows to look at him. "That practice doesn't make perfect, Clint. _Perfect_ practice makes perfect."

He drops her foot. "I'm familiar enough with the process." One eyebrow lifts high on his head and he regards her. "Old hat for us."

Lifting her eyebrow at him and wiping a light sheen of sweat from her upper lip, she tilts her head at him just slightly. "Nothing is old hat for us. Being familiar with something doesn't mean you are good at it. Your turn." She pushes back on his chest and grabs his leg, bracing it against her chest.

"Ouch, Tasha," he grumbles, looking up at her. "Careful, I'm not … as trained for this as you are. This should be a simple in and out job."

"Always quick and over with you," she chides, moving his knee across his chest and leaning her weight against it.

"Just like Vladivostok, isn't it?"

"Only this time I'll wear the tutu," she says, deadpan.

"It _is_ just like Vladivostok," he repeats, holding up a hand so she might help him up. "To the barre?"

"That's the idea." She braces herself and pulls him to his feet off of the floor. "This time we'll try to make sure you come home conscious." She seats herself on the floor and pulls on a pair of well-worn slippers and wraps the ribbons tightly up her ankle and calf.

"I wasn't the one who bought the vodka," he grunts, kicking a leg up over the barre. "How did I get roped into this? I'm not the dancer."

"Then you should learn to hold your drink." Standing, facing him, Natasha artfully moves through third, fourth and then rises to _sur les pointe_ for fifth position. She extends her back leg, pointing her toes at the ceiling, giving him a challenging look. "You can be anything. If you can't." She swings the foot forward and stands, arms crossed and settling her feet flat again with toes facing opposite directions. "Then we make you believe you can." She almost smirks at him.

He stretches to touch the floor, letting his spine undulate as he presses his palms flat to the wood. "What if I drop you?" Bouncing lightly a few times he stands, stretching his arms over his head.

"Wouldn't be the first time," she replies automatically.

"What if you kick me?"

"Won't be the last time.


	5. You're All I've Got Tonight

He drops the bag of quarters on the breakfast bar in front of her.

Natasha looks up from her magazine, one eyebrow barely raising. "Is this your security deposit?"

Shrugging, Clint pulls his lips to one side. The corners of his eyes seem pulled down. "I'm out of socks."

"What do you want me to do about it?" she asks, looking back into her magazine and turning the page. "I don't do laundry."

"Then bring yours and I'll do it." His voice stays mostly flat, though there is a hint of inflection.

"I send mine out," she replies nearly automatically without looking up. "You should try my place. They're good. They even fold your socks." She does glance up now. "Which might be helpful for you, since I don't think you know how."

He tilts his head to the side, arms crossed. "I know how to fold socks, Tasha."

"Could have fooled me." She reaches for and grabs her coffee, then notices it is empty. "I thought you were going out with …" Waving one hand around in the air. "I forget her name."

"Canceled." He offers no more explanation.

"Who canceled? You or her?"

"Does it matter?" He hefts his duffel of laundry up onto his shoulder.

Finally putting the magazine down, she folds her hands and leans her chin onto them. "You want to go do laundry together?"

"Seems as good a plan as any." He jerks his head towards the door.

Tilting her head to one side, her lips move just a fraction to the side in thought. "All right. Give me a minute."

She stands, sliding her chair back into place, then strides down the hallway to her room. She comes back with a giant bag. It's white and it has a giant Hello Kitty on the side. She purses her lips when he lifts an eyebrow at the bag, and lifts one of her own in response. "Don't, Clint. Not if you want to leave this apartment."

"I didn't say anything." He seems to grin just a bit.

"You didn't have to. Let's go."

"I'll grab the cards." He pulls them from a drawer and follows her out the door to the elevator.

He is distracted by the whirling colours in the machine and she wipes the hand of Speed they are playing. They pass the game without much comment. The quiet settles with them as if words aren't necessary. Clint shifts in his chair a few times, and is already standing before the dryer buzzes.

"I'll fold," he offers, pulling the door open and dumping their clothes into the cart.

"I should think so," she answers, tapping the cards on the table to even the edges. "I don't do laundry."

"That's fine," he says from behind her, slamming the dryer door shut. He wheels the cart over to the folding table and begins the meticulous process.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She turns around, freezing in place at what she sees. "Clint."

"What?" He shrugs innocently, trying to keep his face straight.

"That's mine," she scolds, reaching for the bra he has fastened around his head, missing as he leans out of her reach.

"Well it certainly isn't mine," he jests. "I don't think this fabric would lie right under my suit."

Crossing her arms over her chest she lifts a red eyebrow at him. "Very funny. Hand it over."

"Fold the socks," he demands.

"I could take it from you if I wanted."

"Maybe. Who's to say?"

She smiles a bit at him, slightly unguarded. "I say." Without further argument, she starts lying the socks out in matching piles. She slides the pile of mated socks to the side, then leans forward on her folded hands. "I'll offer one more time. Do you want to talk about it?"

He pauses over the t-shirt he's fussing to keep straight. He looks at her for several beats, the corner of his mouth turning up just a bit. Unclasping the bra from his head he hands it over. "I don't need to anymore."

"Good," she says it quietly, folding her undergarment and adding it to the sock pile. "Glad I could help."


	6. Lines Across My Face

The wall can barely be called that any longer. It's tall enough to provide a bit of cover, which is all they need. They crouch down low enough that the crumbled brick shields their heads. Natasha puts fresh clips into her weapons, and Clint checks the number of arrows left in his quiver.

"I think I can make it up there," she says loud enough to be heard over the cacophony of fighting all around. She gestures at a warehouse just a few yards away with a window two stories up. "I just need a little cover. Can you get my back?"

Something crashes into the barrier and a few chunks of mortar let go.

"Do you have to ask?" he yells. Seemingly satisfied with the number of arrows, he turns to spare a glance over the wall. "Just get up there." He nocks an arrow and holds his bow downward, planning his first shot. "And Natasha," he calls while she's crouched.

"What, Clint? I'm a little busy."

"Be careful. This isn't Delhi." He leans up and lines up his shot, pulling the string back to brush against his cheek.

Ducking as another bit of shrapnel hits the wall, she brushes a bit of hair and dust out of her eyes. The side of her mouth curls up on the side and she nods at the back of his head. "I will."

She rolls away from the wall, all the way to her feet and takes off running for the building.

~^v^~

Natasha lets herself into the apartment, quietly. She holds the handled turned until the door is flush with the frame, then lets it click softly into place. Hanging her keys on the cup hook by the door, she slides her shoes off of her feet and walks softly into the kitchen. She rolls her toes to her heels, checking each step against the wood before committing to it.

It's late. Creeping through the kitchen she pulls a mug down from the cupboard. Looking first at the microwave, then at the kettle, then shrugs to herself. She fills her mug with water from the spout on the sink and slips it in the microwave, pushing the preset button.

Hot mug of tea in her hand she pads into the living room. The television is on one of the movie channels. It's one of those romantic comedies that she usually flicks past.

A sudden snort makes her nearly drop her mug, but she manages to not spill any. Turning around, the light from the television flickers across Clint's face. One of his arms is draped over his forehead and his mouth is hanging open. He has one foot on the floor, and one heel wedged over the back. He's too tall for her sofa.

Setting the mug down on the end table, she tip-toes over, sliding the afghan from under his leg and off the back of the couch. She settles it over him, moving his arm off of his face so he doesn't get a crick in his neck.

He stirs, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Her eyes wrinkle slightly as she smiles just slightly, watching. She backs quietly away, then turns and flicks the television off.

"Mmm … Tasha?" he mumbles. "You're late." His eye crack open just slightly.

Her face is expressionless again when she turns back. "Yeah. A little more than I'd planned."

"M'glad you're home."

"Good night, Clint," she whispers, rounding the sofa and heading to her room.

~^v^~

"Grab the milk, Clint. I'll be in produce," she orders in a soft voice.

"Why don't you get the milk, since you always say I get the wrong milk, and I'll go to produce." He crosses his arms over his chest and blocks the shopping cart.

"Because if I trust you with the produce we'll be eating potatoes and apples for a week."

"So?" He lifts a sandy eyebrow and shrugs.

"So." She tilts her head at him, rolling her eyes in his direction. "You need to eat something green once in a while. The mold on the bread you didn't check doesn't count."

"That was moldy?"

"Wow. How have you survived all these years?"

"Seems I've always had someone watching my back." He rolls his eyes. "All right, all right, you win."

"I always win." He smirks at her and actually skips as he rounds the corner to the dairy case.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha smiles at his back as he leaves her line of sight, then turns her cart for the other end of the market.

~^v^~

"No," she snaps. "I want to see him now."

"Miss," the nurse starts.

Natasha pulls her lips into a strained smile. "I know he's here, and I am going to see him."

"He's resting. He's not awake. You may come back in the morning and—"

"By morning he will be transferred, and he may be awake before then." She speaks flatly and calmly to the nurse, making a strained attempt to not be rude. Tapping the screen of her phone, she holds a hand up to the nurse who is still talking. "Hill, it's Romanoff. Yeah. Yeah. Yes, I know. I'm there now." She walks as she talks. Peeking in the tiny mesh-enforced window of each door she finds the one she's looking for. "Yeah. Three-zero-five. I won't leave." She clicks her phone off and eases the door open slowly.

His head is bandaged. The room is silent, only the sound of her heels clicking and the blip of the various monitors break it up. Sinking into the chair she rests her elbows on her knees and her chin on her lightly rolled fists. For a few moments she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Her eyes roll to the ceiling and she blinks furiously, taking a deep breath. "Clint. Wake up. It's time to wake up. Get up and …" She takes another breath. Settling herself she is more relaxed and is once again the picture of calm.

"Tasha?"

She sits up, having nodded off. "Clint." Her mouth breaks into a smile of relief.

"I'm awake, OK." He takes a labored breath, opening his eyes fully. "It's good you're here." He blinks a few times, then grins slightly. "Pretty smile. I ever tell you that?"

"That's the drugs talking." She tilts her chin down and lifts an eyebrow, pulling her mouth back into a line. "You're supposed to be resting."

"You won't leave?"

"No, Clint. I won't leave."

"Good." His chest rises and falls one more time, and he drifts back to sleep, the monitor beeping reassuringly.

Pulling a book out of her handbag, she settles back into the chair, putting her feet up on the edge of his bed


	7. Drifting

There's a beeping sound. Repetitive. Almost irritating. He wants to tell someone to make it stop, but he can't. He can't do much. It's like being restrained - something he has quite a bit of experience with. Can't move, can't speak … He hears Russian.

As comforting as it is foreign to his ear. He's not alone.

He drifts.

Finally, light breaks through the dark and he sees. She's nodded off. He watches the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest for a few minutes before his eyes drag closed again. _Natalia_ … he can't make his mouth match his mind and he drifts again.

There's a sharp pinch that nearly pulls him to. _No_ , he tries to protest, but the tube is in his throat. He doesn't remember that. He can't swallow. The pinching doesn't stop, but he feels a pressure on his left hand.

"He doesn't like needles."

He can hear her clipped tone, and wants to laugh, feeling a moment of pity whatever nurse has been assigned to him. He tries to squeeze back, to let her know he's here. The muscles just won't work. _Natalia_.

He hears Russian again. He never knows what she says, but he would know it anywhere. He remembers the first time he heard her use it. Vladivostok.

The pinching stops and he drifts again.

He dreams. Each city is a flash of red hair and honeysuckle.

Minsk, Belarus, Cairo, Pusan.

Budapest.

Sometimes he's chasing, sometimes being chased. Side by side. A soft brush of lips.

Stalingrad.

He hears Russian again. He can't tell if it's the dream or the world he can't seem to touch. There is a pressure next to him, someone there. They shift and fingers touch his hair.

The beep beep of the monitor is constant. The machine pushes and pulls and he can feel his chest move.

Rhythmic like the up and down of the carousel.

_How do you remember that?_

Each mission is etched into him and woven into his memories. He recalls each moment with sometimes painful clarity. The wharf in San Francisco under stars pulls him into another dream.

There's singing.

It's nothing he can recognize, and he tries to pull a breath. He chokes. He coughs and struggles and tries to clear whatever is blocking his throat.

"Get that tube out." A woman is speaking, cold, clipped. There is movement and the mattress under him shifts as someone climbs off the bed. There is a beep beep beep-ing. It's irritating but not as much as whatever he's choking on.

A burning sensation and the blockage is gone. He pulls a breath that scrapes the rawness in his throat.

"Clint. Clint, can you hear me?" Someone is talking to him. The woman. She smells like … a flower. Honeysuckle.

The lights are too bright and he blinks against them. A head of red hair comes into focus. An almost smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Stop scaring me like that," she says to him. There's pressure on his left hand. He drags his head to one side to see her hand on his.

He blinks.

The words rasp out of unused vocal cords.

"Where … I …" He struggles. The thoughts are muzzy and uncertain. His eyes find hers. "Who … who are you?"


	8. Wait For Me

"You need to walk, Agent Barton. Ten steps." The physio nurse has reminded him of this three times now.

"I know," he snaps. It's frustrating enough without being reminded that he needs to do this. He can feel the muscles in his legs. They are there, he knows because they ache and burn, but he can't make them do what he wants them to.

He leans his weight on the walker and it slips, nearly fumbling headlong over it. He swears in aggravation. Throwing the damned thing crosses his mind, but even he has to admit that he can't stand without it.

Some highly trained assassin he's turning out to be. He struggles to recall any of the things that are written on the pages of the dossier that has been brought to him. He sees names and aliases and photographs. They are, the red haired woman tells him, who he is. All he knows are blue eyes looking at him, almost expressionless, as if he's a lost child.

Step three. Step four. He feels a tingling in his left leg on step five and falls. He grips the walker and looks across to the windows of the physio room. She's there, watching him with a placid face. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her head tilts just slightly to one side, her mouth in a thin line.

He doesn't know why she's here, except that she tells him that she promised. He doesn't remember that promise, but still, she swears she is bound to it all the same. She doesn't elaborate on what that promise entails, and after reading his file, he's not sure he wants to.

She visits him at meal times and reminds him to eat the vegetables. It's simple, as if she does it all the time. He wants to snap at her when she does, but he looks at her, flipping through some fashion magazine, and he stops.

He wakes to the sound of rain on the window. The beep, beep, beep of the monitors are almost drown out by the sound of water pelting the panes of glass.

It isn't until he shifts on the bed that he realizes that there is someone else there. A head rests on his shoulder. At first he flinches and she stirs, then he relaxes subtly as a smell wafts to his nose. It's familiar even though he can barely place it.

"Honeysuckle," he murmurs, his face pulling down in confusion.

"Hmm?" She sits up slightly, shifting to give him room.

"Your hair … it smells like—"

"Honeysuckle," she finishes for him. "Ever since Vancouver."

His back is stiff, but he sits up more and looks at her.

"Vancouver?" He repeats it a few times. The shadows of a memory he can't quite grasp pull at him. "Vancouver." He tilts his head slightly towards her. "You had broken ribs."

"That's right." She doesn't offer anymore, and her expression doesn't change. One arm lifts and comes to rest behind her head.

"You couldn't wash your own hair, and the hotel … had … shampoo. It smelled like—"

"Honeysuckle." When he looks at her, he thinks the corner of her mouth has turned up at the side. "You went on and on about how nothing had ever smelled better. I think really you were just glad that it didn't smell like—"

"Sulfur. We'd been under the streets. All day." The dark tunnels come back to him, bit by bit.

He's read the files and the dossiers both morning and night. A seemingly endless list of cities and missions that he as no recollection of. He's pulled and grasped and the words on the page still mean nothing.

That one smell, though. It invades his memory and floods his head with pictures. Some of them clear, and some of them dimmed with time and the clot that nearly took him.

"Tasha?" His voice breaks over the syllables. He leans his forehead against her, hiding the pain on his face. "I'm so lost."

She doesn't say anything. One arm wraps around him, careful of the IV and the monitor wires coming from everywhere. Her fingers brush over the back of his hair.

He rests there until his breathing calms again. "I don't remember you. It's there, just out of reach. I don't know who I am."

"This is just another mission, Clint." Her voice is slightly distant, but she curls against him almost imperceptibly. "We'll get through it," she promises, then is quiet for a while. He falls asleep again to the sound of her singing some song he doesn't understand, but he recognizes.


	9. Flowers On The Windowsill

"I was married?" He asks it with a touch of disbelief on his voice.

"Yup." She answers noncommittally with a shrug.

It takes time to get from the car to the elevator, and more time to get from the elevator into the apartment. She makes him walk on his own, though she doesn't deny him the cane he was given. Pulling some sort of patience from somewhere, she watches with her arms crossed as he navigates over the slight rise between the kitchen tiles and the living room carpet.

He looks over to her, his brow pulled down slightly in the middle. "Was I … good at it?"

Her mouth turns up on the side slightly. "Now, see, the Clint I know wouldn't need to be told. He'd assure me that, like everything, he … what's the term? _Owned it_."

"The Clint you know sounds like a cocky sonnuvabitch." He lifts his eyebrow at her as he turns to lower himself onto the sofa.

"He's not known for his humility. That's for certain." She visibly shifts her stance and then crosses the room. Gently scooping her arm under both of his ankles, she moves them to the sofa in front of him.

"Where is she now?" He pulls himself with his elbows until his back is against the arm of the sofa. He's too tall for the sofa, but he can fit if he sits up. "Did it not work out?" He grins. "Was I just too good at assassinating people?"

Natasha pulls her mouth to the side and seems to contemplate her words before she speaks. Carefully, she lifts his legs and sits on the cushion under them. "Truth?"

He tilts his head fractionally. "You gonna start lying to me now?"

"Point." She arranges the afghan over his legs and her lap. "She died a few years ago."

"Oh." He seems to consider this for some time. He winds his fingers through the loose weave of the afghan, then looks up at her. "Bobbi."

"Bobbi," she repeats. Pressing her lips together she sits quietly and watches his face move through a gamut of expressions.

"We worked together, all of us."

Her eyes look across the room at nothing while he puzzles it out. "That's right. You used to watch that one show when we would come home from really intense missions. You bought the discs bootleg in Korea." She turns to look at him again and her mouth turns up. "In your pyjama pants. What was that show?"

He chuckles. His eyes glaze over for a moment before he meets her eyes. "We had matching ones. University of Iowa."

She laughs a little, softly. "I forgot about those. You got me a pair for my birthday."

"You wouldn't eat the mallow-mars, and you refused to wear the pants."

"They looked kind of disgusting, and I will have you know I still have the pants." She lifts one scarlet eyebrow at him. "I swear whenever you two watched that show, all you ate was crap."

"Cheeseburgers. Those girls knew how to eat." He rests his head against the back of the sofa and gestures vaguely at the television. "Can we watch it now?"

She moves her mouth to say "no" and "sure" comes out instead. "If you can explain the appeal to me."

He shrugs slightly. "I like the way they talk. Fast, you know?"

She moves his legs again so she can get up, then crouches down and crawls across the floor to the television cabinet. After searching for a few minutes she pulls out the disc and puts it in the player. When "la, la, la, la" on the title menu begins she is already back on the sofa.

"How did she die?"

Natasha turns to face him, her face expressionless. "That was in the dossier I brought you."

He's quiet for a minute. "No. It wasn't."

It looks like she flinches. She blinks one time and then settles against the back of the couch. "For you, Clint."

He seems to accept this as he watches the screen. "Oh."

They watch in the sort of silence that comes from years of proximity, comfortable in the absence of anything other than the chatter on the television.

"They do talk fast," she comments non-judgmentally. There is a slight strain in her voice as if she seems to be refraining from having an opinion one way or the other after only twenty minutes.

He laughs unguardedly, then looks at her. "Did I love her, Tasha?"

Her mouth pulls down at the corner as if she doesn't understand what he is asking. "Love is for children, Clint." She says it simply.

He nods, then shifts one leg with a slight sucking in of air over his teeth.

She rubs the balls of her thumbs over the muscles of his shins.

"But you and I are—"

A raised eyebrow cuts him off. "You wouldn't be here otherwise," she tells him in a flat voice, then moves his legs aside so she can stand. "I'll make us some tea."

"I really want a cheeseburger."

"We'll start with tea."

He grins. His face pulls with spark of memory. "I'll even eat the lettuce."

One hand rests on her hip when she turns to look at him, her head tilted just _slightly_. "Is that a promise?"

"It is."

"I'll add it to the ledger," she tells him as she turns on the balls of her feet and pads to the kitchen.


	10. Stranger Than Your Sympathy

"I'm good," Clint says, bracing himself on his knees to catch his breath. "I can keep going for a few more blocks." He grins.

She takes the momentary pause in their running to stretch. Pulling one leg in half to her rear and holding it with the easy grace of a ballerina, she tilts her head just slightly to the side. "All right." The line of her mouth has the distinct look of "I don't believe you".

"Yeah." He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop, his arms outstretched. "I can go all day. You know." He winks.

"Oh, I _know_ ," she tells him dryly. One eyebrow raises slightly on her forehead. "Let's go then, Clint." She starts off on the balls of her feet, giving him a crack on the backside on her way by. Spandex running shorts make a satisfying _smack_ when she does so.

He keeps up for a block, their pace in even stride. Their feet pound the pavement in perfect sync and make soft splashes in the puddles from the previous night's rain.

"We should go run down by the waterfront," she suggests easily.

"That's at least … seven miles, Tasha."

"Don't worry," she tells him with controlled breathing. "That's just the warmup."

"Oh," he pants. "Of course."

By the second block he's several strides behind.

Natasha veers through a crosswalk and into the still quiet park. She leads them to the jogging trail and kicks up onto her toes, lengthening her stride. There's time to turn around and run backward while she waits for him to catch up.

Several ragged breaths later he does. His stride is strong but the pace uneven, and before he even gets to her side his breathing is painfully audible.

She swings her elbow into his chest. Before he can react to the hit she's grabbed his head with her knees and brought him to the ground with a soft _thud_. He grunts loudly but doesn't fight back.

"You're tired."

"I'm not. Just getting warmed up, Tasha."

"If you push yourself too hard too fast, you're going to slow your progress." She releases his head and he props himself up on his elbows.

"I'm fine, Tasha." He drops his head back and looks at the sky, his mouth in a stern pucker. "Stronger every day."

Shaking her head she lies back on the ground beside him. The damp grass has been freshly cut and bits stick to her hair.

"If you lie to me, Clint, we die." She says it simply in a way that may as well be commentary on the overcast morning.

"I know."

"Do you? You remember Dubai?"

He's quiet for a few moments. "No." Interlocked fingers fold behind his head and he turns to look at her profile.

"I know." It's non-judgmental. Her voice is calm and emotionless, but her mouth presses into a line.

"I promise I'm fine."

"That doesn't even sound like a word anymore."

He sighs. Fingers find a bit of grass in her hair and pick it out, then brush a strand of red from her forehead.

Without looking she grasps his wrist firmly, like a reflex. Her head pulls out of his reach. "Don't change the subject."

"Would I do that?" He grins.

Without missing a beat. "Yes."

"Tasha, I'm better."

Her face swings toward him. "How do I take my tea?"

"Straight up."

"Our first mission together?"

"Where I was supposed to kill you or when we were on the same team?"

She actually smirks. "Like you could kill me."

"Quebec."

A nod of her head indicates that she seems to accept this.

"Birthplace?"

"Iowa, baby." He plucks his t-shirt.

"Your daughter's name?"

He pauses. "I …"

"I thought so." Turning her face to look at him again, she sighs. "Don't lie to me again. And you don't have a daughter."

"I _knew_ that," he says, nudging her with his foot. "I'm getting there. I promise I'll be fine soon."

"I know." Her head pillows on her arms as she looks at the sky again, seeming to watch the clouds pass with her eyes. "You wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that.


	11. Sunshine In A Bag

"Can you believe this guy?" Clint points. "Look at him. That's not hiding. I should take him out on principle." He lifts a sandy blond eyebrow and jerks his chin forward in the direction of the object of his ire.

"He's one of ours, Clint." Natasha counts slowly and softly to five and takes the shot. "That's double digits for me."

"Yeah, well I'm still three up on you."

"Not for long." She takes two more shots while her eyes are trained on _him_. Her head nods almost imperceptibly when she does. "You talk a big game for a guy who couldn't get out of bed yesterday. Now it's just one."

He bobs his head from side to side, mocking her. Closing his eyes he takes the next shot, then lets out a whoop. "Aw yeah. And _that's_ how it's done in the circus." He pumps his fist in the air. "Not bad for a carny, huh?"

"Do you need to yell?" Pressing her mouth into a line she takes another shot.

"They can't hear us."

"That is beside the point, Clint," she reminds him. "You're so loud."

"You know, Tasha, two weeks ago you said I was too quiet." He grunts in frustration and throws his hands up in the air. "Aw, the rest of our team wiped. _Amateurs_."

"Are you honestly surprised by that?"

Clint snorts.

She shrugs. "I've gotten about all the use I can out of this."

"Aww, are you bored, or just upset because my kill count is higher?" He tosses his controller on the floor. When she tilts her head at him just slightly he grumbles and picks it back up, then puts it under the television cabinet. "Come on, Tasha, I've been in this bone yard for weeks. This is the most action I've seen since … well you know."

She sets her controller on the end table and stands. "You're just bitter because I locked you out last night. I warned you to stay out of my things. I'm going to make us tea." She pads across the carpet to the kitchen and pulls the tin from the cupboard. Her feet make soft slaps on the tiles while she crosses to the cup hooks to take down two mugs.

"Coffee sounds great, thanks!" he calls. "You aren't still sore about that? It was just a joke."

"Earl Grey it is. Short sheeting my bed is not my idea of amusing."

"I said I was sorry."

"I know." She sets the kettle on the flame.

"I brought you champagne."

"I don't like champagne, Clint." Her eyes slide sideways towards him.

He grins, lifting an eyebrow. "Oh, that's right. That's me." He locks his hands behind his head and leans back against the back of the sofa. "You think Coulson and Hill know that's us?" He nods at the console.

The corner of her mouth pulls up in amusement. "I don't think so. I doubt Phil would brag so openly about his _stellar_ stats if he did."

"Ha! I should," he makes air quotes, "accidentally call him CapFan-nineteen-twenty my first day back."

The sides of her mouth turn up slightly as she pours the water over the mesh infusers. "That's one way to get sent on assignment to Siberia. Literally."

He waggles an eyebrow as she brings the mugs in and sits next to him. "Yeah, but you could show me around, right? It would be like old times, only less trying to kill one another."

Rolling her eyes she hands him his tea. "No." Shaking her head she pats him on the knee. "Why do you think I defected?"

"I thought it was my charm."

"You're not that charming. Trust me."

"You always say that, Tasha." He kicks his legs up into her lap.

"I know," she tells him into her mug.


	12. Said Sadly

She laughs at his fedora. Every time they go on a job he always has to have the loudest, Hawai'an-style shirts and goofiest hats. Fedoras aren't goofy by definition. Some men seem to pull them off well.

Clint, in true Clint Barton form, has chosen one far too small for his head. _Any hat would be too big for his head_ , she thinks as she purses her lips at him. It sits awkwardly askew. He's also not wearing socks with his trainers and his linen pants are too short, in her opinion.

"It's rakish," he argues, dodging out of the way of her hands. He swats her hands away half-heartedly. Natasha tries to adjust it — he looks like a tourist but she supposes that's the point. When killing people in tourist traps, they have to play the role the same as anywhere else.

"It looks ridiculous. You'll spend more time keeping it on your head than paying attention to our mark." She crosses her arms. Anyone walking by might think they are having a lover's spat by the exasperated expression on her face.

"I'm focused, Tasha. Don't look at me like that." Crossing his eyes he pulls the side of his mouth up into a crooked grin.

Natasha responds with a simple lift of one red brow. "Just be quiet. Or I'll make you quiet."

This earns a look from him that is nothing but trouble. It's almost a challenge, but she knows he knows better.

They sit at a wire table in matching wire chairs across the street from the location. Clint can't seem to go on a job without food or drink in his hand, so he's brought seared ahi tacos. How he can drink hot coffee in this weather, she may never know. One foot props up on the chair where she's sitting. It's a casual gesture, one she hardly notices anymore.

"There he is," he tells her, taking half the taco in a single bite. A slight tilt of his head gives her the direction she needs to look, and she rests her face on her loosely-curled fist without really putting weight against it. He crunches away and watches while she pours on more Tapatio. "Cholua goes better with these. Really. Try the pineapple salsa." He holds out the little dish of salsa to dump onto her food.

His attention is grabbed by something outside her field of vision. She can't see it without turning around.

Clint coughs and sputters, nearly choking, and drops the plastic dish into her lap.

"Clint. For crying out loud." She tries to keep her voice low and her face casual. Dry cleaning might not be able to get the stain out of her sundress. "What's gotten into you?"

Curiosity winning over, she follows his line of sight to their mark. The blonde woman who's just joined the middle-aged man they've followed since Rome has that particular _walk_. Natasha has to look twice to make sure she's right. It _can't_ be …

Clint gets up out of his chair too fast. It falls over and rattles as the back hits the ground and bounces.

"Clint, no," she says through a convincing smile and clenched teeth. "Are you all right, dear?" she asks, her voice raised just slightly.

"I'll be right back."

Gripping his arm tightly, she turns her head up towards his. "No." She's smiling again. Her eyes flick around to make sure no one is watching them too closely. Only a little girl, pigtails crooked and hair mussed turns when the chair hit the pavement. "You'll spook the pigeons."

"I have to see." He pulls his arm, but her grip has always been firm.

"She's gone, Clint. You know that."

He pauses as if he's going to take another step. There's conflict on his face, but after a few heartbeats, it melts into anguish then smoothly into a smile.

"I think they gave you decaf instead, babe. I'll just go inside and get that set right." Nodding, he closes his eyes for just a moment, then snatches up the coffee he goes inside.

Her eyes follow him through the plate of the windows. There is no pity on her face. It's a useless emotion, and he has even less use for it. Clint has his pride, and she lets him have it when possible. Her peripheral vision catches him as he dumps the cup in the trash and heads for the washroom.

Natasha turns back to her food, giving him just a moment. He only needs one. Even she knows time doesn't heal all wounds.


	13. Contacts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where was Clint during the events of Captain America 2?

Nat always calls at the same time. “Same” was subjective but Clint knew when the calls would come in. The erratic nature was logical to the people who needed to know. Him.

The first one she misses doesn’t worry him. He waits, then pockets his Stark phone. Outside it’s sunny and bright and bordering on too warm. He has to shield his eyes with a hand as he stoops on the steps, looking up and down the street, and double-checking a jogger in a tracksuit. It’s the kind of weather Nat enjoys. Perfect for cookouts on the roof where she pretends to be annoyed with him. Perfect for work.

Killing people in warm places is always more fun, she says. He knows enough to believe her when she says this.

She misses the second call and this time he calls her right away. The number you have dialed is out of service…

He pushes away the clenched feeling in his belly. Nat’s a big girl. Dropping her phone when on an assignment isn’t unusual.

Clint looks at the nail on the wall where Lucky’s leash used to hang and lets out a sigh. His convalescence is about up. He’s done jobs since then. No one from SHIELD has called him in.

He has painfully little to do.

The T.V. makes noise, which makes him feel less alone, even if he can’t hear it well. He switches it on, not paying attention or really caring what channel comes up, then crosses to the kitchen for a beer. The usual shambles of his life hang around him, but Nat cleaned in a fit of pique before she left. It’s neat clutter but he still hasn’t found everything yet. Including his church key.

Holding the bottle to the counter edge, he pounds it with a fist and the cap pops off with a spurt of foam.

“...alerted to the scene when a man dropped onto the roof of a car and smashed the windshield…”

He squints at the screen, the captioning confusing him. Sometimes it’s wrong. Closed captioning is unreliable at the best of times. A woman drops on the screen and is struggling with a man, riding his shoulders--

Clint turns up the volume, his beer forgotten.

Shit.

He tries her number three more times before he gives up. He calls Captain Glamour pants, because that’s where she was supposed to be. When he gets the same recording he nearly breaks his phone.

One, two, three, four, and five numbers from SHIELD give him the same results. Where is Fury? Where is Coulson? Hill was born with her earpiece in and he can’t get ahold of her, either.

Dread fills his stomach.

Clint Barton, the World’s Greatest Marksman, has no contacts, no friends, and no idea what any of it means.

He feels the knock on his door before the faintness of it reaches him. Stealth comes naturally. Testing each step with the side of his foot before committing his weight -- Nat taught him that what feels like eons ago -- he creeps towards the door.

One, two, three agents. Even if this were an emergency, three is excessive when a phone call would have done. The third one he knows. They played poker together. He visited him in the hospital after New York.

Visited or guarded?

One hand roughs over his stubble. There’s no time. No way to prepare. There’s only him and Babushka on the wall -- three steps away -- which is going to have to be good enough.

This looks bad.

“Yeah?” He announces himself at the peep hole, then steps away, reaching for his bow. His quiver. He can only find one shoe. His pants are held together with a paperclip. Why didn’t he throw these out?

“Agent Barton?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

Silence.

One latch. one bolt. He opens the door, leaning on the frame, propped on one elbow, grinning like he’s brought ice to a cookout. Behind the door he holds Babushka, like the best friend he has holding his hand, and right now she’s his only friend.

“You know, I’m still on paid leave until next week. Agent Romanoff should have told you. It was in the memo. Didn’t you guys get the memo?” He runs a hand over his hair and shrugs.

“You’re needed now. We’ve orders to bring you in.”

“Right. See. I got a problem with that.” Breathe out. Swing. Duck. Turn. Bow to the head. Elbow to the throat. Stomp on the instep. Nock. Draw. Commit. “I had plans.”

Two down, one in front of him.

“Now, Agent Barton. This doesn’t have to be a fight.”

“Man, Dave. I guess I’m never going to get those two bills from you.” He trains the arrow. It won’t kill. It will incapacitate. Dave doesn’t know this, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to make like the Pope in his drawers.

Dave pulls for his gun, but Clint’s faster. His hand hits the door frame, arrow seeming to leap from it as the man screams out, dropping his gun to the floor.

Clint picks it up, drops the magazine from it, then dismantles the rest with one hand. In the next motion he has Dave’s wallet in his hand. “Thanks. Gonna need  those bills after all.”

He is out the hallway window and to the roof.

Clint drops the phone on the ground, stomps on it, and runs.

  
  



	14. Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this seems familiar, it should. Miri and I decided to complement one another a bit, so this lines up with Soldier/Ghost #11.

He has to lose his single shoe by the third rooftop. It makes his gait uneven and throws off his momentum on the jumps. He catches a pair of trainers from a powerline, never sure why they’re there, and shoves his feet into them until he can do better.

It takes him some time. He makes a few stops along the way. Library with a computer. Pawn shop with a window full of televisions. If Clint had time for it, he’d be deep in thought wondering how it is he’s missed all of this shit. Deep in thought isn’t his strong suit, so he settles by “make it up as he goes” and hurries on his way.

By the time he’s climbing down the fire escape to Nat’s apartment, he’s lost the paperclip and is navigating the ladder with one hand holding up his pants.

Nat’s place is the first place they’ll look for him. But he needs clothes. He needs supplies. And he needs a place to lie low. The only way he’s going to find that is through Natasha’s network. No Nat, no contacts. He’s on his own. So Nat’s place is the place to start.

He uses the bedroom window because it faces the alleyway with the dumpsters. The smell of piss and pennies and greasy takeout wafts up and into his nose as he makes the landing. His weight is barely distributed before the black cat is weaving around his bare ankles.

“Nat’ll get pissed if I let you in.” Crouching, he scritches her -- he thinks her is right anyhow -- under the whiskers, which earns him a roaring purr. “May as well. She gets pissed at me anyway.”

The cat goes in the window before he does and immediately makes herself at home on the foot of the bed. Her eyes watch him with mild interest as he tiptoes around the room, shedding his pants. “Don’t judge me. I’m a busy man. I can’t spend time mating and folding socks.” They were sorta the same colour.

There was a shelf in Nat’s closet -- she hung everything neatly and never messed with bureaus -- for his things. Things he’d left after moving out. Things he left when he visited. Things he left in her car when they were somewhere together. It was a pretty slick way of getting some of his things laundered. He’s tugging a t-shirt over his haphazard hair when he walks out.

His bare feet on the floor alert him. He stops, one leg in his jeans. There is definitely someone else here. He waits, still as stone, each thump of step giving him more information.

It’s not Nat. He just knows it’s not. She wouldn’t come directly here, anyway. She’d find him on a crowded street, and this is what he’s counting on.

After buttoning the jeans he pulls on a deep purple hoodie before curling his fingers around Babushka again. Slowly, the sound of his breath hard in his ears, he nocks an arrow and draws before he rounds the corner.

If a shot of fear runs down his spine it doesn’t show on the cold grin of his face. Perspiration forms on his skin but he keeps his aim steady and his voice even.

It’s the man from the television. He’s scruffy with scraggly hair. He smells filthy and moves slowly but with purpose, immediately to the painting -- Russia in the winter -- and touches it with shiny fingers.

“Nat’s not gonna like you touching her stuff.”

The man turns, completely unafraid of the arrow that will sail the three paces and go clean through his eye. It’s now that Clint gets a better look. There’s an upside to being the World’s Greatest Snoop as well as marksman. “I know who you are, and I really don’t wanna put this arrow through your eye. I’m thinkin’ Captain America isn’t gonna be happy about that.”

He looks different. Rougher. Did anyone from the forties actually die? “Not too big on killing, but if you try to kill me I’ll try right back. Fair is fair buddy. This ain’t the midway.” There is something else Clint recognises, something tugging at his mind, but two breaths later he pushes it away.

“You’re the Hawk.” There’s a moment of memory in the fogginess of his eyes.

“Prefer Hawkeye. Clint to my friends.” His lips twitch a little. “That’s not you. In case there was confusion.”

The man takes a step and Clint lifts his eyebrows and nods at the arrow. He may not shoot to kill but there are five ways this arrow could buy him what he needs to get out.

“I’m not here to kill.” His words are nearly blank.

“Huh. That’s a switch.”

“The woman.” He points at the painting. “She has weapons I need.”

Clint snorts a laugh. “Nat’s not big on sharing. Likes her guns where she left them.” One little prank and you’re locked out for a week.

“Not the guns.”

Clint knows that glassy expression. That look of confusion, of trying to put pieces around you together. The way the man seems to beg his senses to give him some answer. The slow way he talks as if trying to feel every word for familiarity.

I’m going to regret this, I just know it. After a deep breath, he lowers his bow and puts the arrow back in the quiver. If this guy wearing Captain Forties’ friend’s face was going to kill him, he’d likely be bleeding already.

“You know,” he says as he moves to the painting and takes it down. “I read what they did to you.” He can feel the man’s eyes trained on him as he punches in the combination to the large safe. “Got a lotta empathy. Someone monkeyin’ around in your brain like that. Pullin’ you out. Puttin’ something else in.”

Clint swings the door wide open, then leans his shoulders against the door. Watching. “Captain Glamour Pants, he’s my friend. He’s Nat’s friend. He’s pretty much everyone’s friend. Even yours. Because that’s just who the guy is.” Waving his hand he adds, maybe a little sharply, “take what you need. Nat will moan but she’d want you safe. For him.” That’s not the full of it, and he knows it.

When he reaches into the safe, it’s not a gun or any number of things that go boom he brings out. It’s those little zappy things she likes so much. He doesn’t blink or stop or look up but slaps one onto his arm -- his metal damned arm -- and it jolts him halfway across the room.

“Hey, look now, Cap wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, okay.”

This guy, this Bucky Barnes, or Winter Soldier, simply rolls his shoulder and swings his arm around. “Hydra will be here soon.”

Got news for you buddy, I already knew that. If they didn’t follow him, they followed this guy. Man. Nat’s going to be pissed. He drops both shoulders. “Aww. Bro.”

“They will not hesitate to kill you if they find out you know where I am going.”

“Good thing I don’t know that, then.” He smiles but his stomach is sick as he watches the guy climb out the window.

He figures he has about three minutes head start on Hydra. He pulls what he needs from the safe -- a packet of information, some of those little charge thingies, and a pair of glocks, just in case. Pocket knife. Dropper phone. Most of this goes into a bag save the phone. That goes in the ol’ butt pocket.

He smells the change in the air. From piss and copper to sweat and leather. It’s subtle but it’s distinct. His Converse are by the door and he pulls them on without tying them.

By the time the goons bust through the windows and door, he’s hanging by his fingers beneath the fire escape.

He hopes the cat got out okay.


End file.
